“Of that I have no doubt. Go ahead. I’m listening.”
She glanced down at her notes. “I wrote about how angry men like Wingate make me. I wrote how unfair all this is, that I’m not allowed to maintain my anonymity because my identity might serve his cause. Why is it that a man can tear away a woman’s privacy, her safety, her dignity—and no one stops him?
“I’m not the first. God knows I won’t be the last. We’ve seen it before. Some men don’t understand how precarious it all is for us. How hard it is to survive, let alone thrive. They don’t see that we’re paid less, expected to do more, judged harder. The line we walk is so narrow. And the fall… the fall is always there, always waiting.
“What happens if I’m unmasked and I lose teaching jobs as a result? Some of the families I work for are pro-suffrage, but not all. I need both. I can’t pick and choose like others can. I can’t afford to lose what little I have. I don’t have the luxury of principle when rent is due.”
Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. She had to say it all. She owed it to herself, and to the woman who’d been shoved around in ways far worse than she had.
“And I think about my mother. About how this could hurt her. How alone she’s been. How different things might be if there were real support for widows. For single mothers. But there’s nothing, Emil. Nothing. And it’s wrong. There’s so much wealth in this city. I see it every day—these grand, airy homes, glittering with comfort and security. And all I can think is…what happens to them if their fathers or husbands die? Will they be left like my mother was? Scraping together her dignity while a greedy landlord breathes down her neck?
“I want to vote. I want a say in what happens to me. I’ve been…I’ve been like a leaf in the wind. Blown from one thing to another, no say, no anchor. I’m not naive—I know voting won’t fix everything. But it’s a way to tell the world I exist. That my needs matter. That I matter. How can that be so wrong?”
He shook his head slowly. “It isn’t.”
“All I want is a chance. If women could vote, maybe we’d finally be heard. Maybe we could demand better. Not just for wives. Not just for mothers. For all of us.”
Emil’s hand came to rest on hers. “You deserve a chance. All of you do.”
She exhaled shakily. “I…I want to write a letter. One that Winnie can ask Mack to publish. It’ll have to be anonymous, since I’m not ready to put my name to it. But I can still speak. I can tell the truth about what it means to live under the shadow of men like Wingate. If he tries to expose me after that, it won’t just be me he’s going after. It will be every woman who’s ever feared for her job, her safety, and her dignity. I want people to see that. To recognize the injustice. I want them to condemn him if he does what he’s threatening to do.”
His brows rose, but not with alarm, doubt, or judgment. It was with pride. And it buoyed her.
“And maybe—maybe it won’t stop with me. Maybe it will ripple outward. Maybe other women will see themselves in my words. Maybe they’ll start speaking, too. I don’t know if it will be enough, Emil. But it’s something. And this way, I’m not asking you to risk making an enemy. The decision will be in Wingate’s hands.”
“If he makes the wrong decision,” he said, his voice hard, “I won’t hesitate to set him straight.”
“I know, and I adore you for it. But let me try it my way first. Please. Let me see if I can make him the one under scrutiny.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “Will you help me put my ideas into words that people will want to read?”
He gave her a smile so tender it curled around her heart. “Everything you just said—that’s the magic. You don’t have to dress it up or sound impressive. Just speak like yourself. Because that’s what people need to hear. What they deserve to hear. Not me.”
She swallowed over the rising lump in her throat. “But you’ll read it before I take it to Winnie?”
“With pleasure.” He squeezed her hand. “You can do this, Olive. I believe in you.”
His words struck deeper than she wanted to admit. They weren’t harmless encouragement; they mattered. Too much. And that was the truth she could no longer avoid: she craved them. She craved him. His approval, his admiration. The sound of his voice praising her. And the craving didn’t stop at her heart. It tugged lower, a restless ache that refused to be ignored. A hunger she couldn’t soften with reason or name politely in her mind.
“Emil,” she said softly, setting her notebook aside. Oh God, this part was difficult. “I’m ready to…that is, before I leave, would you want to…”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “I’ll wash up and meet you in the bedroom in ten minutes.” He stood, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then strode from the room.
Well. Turns out some things were easier than she thought.
Chapter 21
Olive stood shivering in front of the chestnut standing mirror in Emil’s bedroom. His maroon silk robe enveloped her, whisper thin and soft against her skin. Her nipples, large and taut, pushed against the front obscenely. She was considering folding her arms over them when there was a brisk knock at the door.
“Come in,” she called, hands fisting at her sides in an effort not to fidget.
Emil stepped into the room, rubbing a towel over his black locks, and her lips parted in astonishment. He was shirtless. Shoeless. Clad only in low-slung pants, the top button brazenly undone. Droplets of water still clung to the curvature of his pectorals, and as she watched, mesmerized, one fat drop slid down the center line of his chest. She licked her dry lips, but a flutter of uncertainty marred her appreciation. He was so outrageously handsome, so effortlessly impressive. What if?—
“Uh oh,” he said lightly. “I know that look.”
“What look?” She peeked into the mirror, but all she saw was herself.
“The one that tells me the wheels of worry are back in motion.”
“I’m trying not to, but…it’s hard.”
